Thomas Wentworth Higginson (1823–1911)

SOFTER than silence, stiller than still air,

Float down from high pine-boughs the slender leaves.

The forest floor its annual boon receives

That comes like snowfall, tireless, tranquil, fair.

Gently they glide, gently they clothe the bare

Old rocks with grace. Their fall a mantle weaves

Of paler yellow than autumnal sheaves

Or those strange blossoms the witch-hazels wear.

Athwart long aisles the sunbeams pierce their way;

High up, the crows are gathering for the night;

The delicate needles fill the air; the jay

Takes through their golden mist his radiant flight;

They fall and fall, till at November’s close

The snowflakes drop as lightly—snows on snows.